


Autumn Morning Serenade

by myuglyone



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Retirementlock, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2014-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-19 12:53:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2388923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myuglyone/pseuds/myuglyone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An early autumn morning and a serenade for the bees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Autumn Morning Serenade

There’s a bite of autumn in the air this morning. I always feel a little melancholy at this time of year. It’s a time of endings, of quiet, of waiting. I’ve never been very patient.

It’s not that I don’t enjoy the winter, bundled up snug in layers of wool, sipping tea by the fire. But even after all these years away from London, the dark and quiet still make everything somehow louder in my head. I long for the thrum and bustle of the city. I itch for something, _anything_ , to happen.

Here, now, I force myself to be still. My gaze lands on the dust motes swirling across the beam of weak sunlight streaming through the kitchen window. Violin hefted to my chin, I pick up the weathered bow and prepare to draw it across the strings. I hover there a moment, relishing the way everything calms, anticipating the perfect note I can already hear in my head. And in that waiting silence: a quiet humming. A fancy takes me, and I lower the bow and step out into the small courtyard. Goosebumps rise on my forearms and bare feet, and I shiver slightly. Yes, summer is definitely over. Well. Everything ends.

A few bees zoom busily around the morning glories still blossoming indigo by the fence. At the other end of the garden, the hum grows louder as I approach the hive. Incline a gentle bow to the queen, roll the early-morning stiffness out of my neck, raise the violin once again.

I start to play a gentle melody. Quiet arpeggios I’ve played a thousand times, leaving my mind free to wander.

Another autumn morning. Standing in front of the window at 221B in dressing gown and pajamas, playing the same etude. John sitting in his chair, drinking coffee and idly flipping through the newspaper. He probably assumed I was so engrossed I didn’t even notice he was in the room. Staring down onto the street below, hands moving automatically, his every shift and sigh igniting warm flashes of comfort in my chest. The simple domesticity. Of course I knew he was there. I always knew he was there. I was playing for him, after all.

And now, I play for the bees.

I listen to the scratch of my bow across the strings and the buzzing of the bees and I am suddenly fiercely grateful for those precious few months with John in 221B. I don’t know why he stayed; no one ever did before him, and no one after. I’m not the kind of person who inspires people to stay. Not that I needed anyone to stay, you understand. I’m fine by myself. I’m brilliant! Only sometimes, it gets a bit lonely in the early mornings, and sometimes one longs for the smell of coffee, the rustle of paper, a throat being cleared, a shared smile.

It was such a blessed time. A terrible time too, he might say, bookended by pain and betrayals and cruel truths better left unsaid. But still: the sweetness of anticipation, the thrill of the chase, the lighting-spark moment when seemingly random details resolve into the perfect solution, the glow of his open admiration, narrow escapes, adrenalin rush and heart-pounding triumph, leaping across rooftops and gasping in stairwells. Come on, John! Holding onto each other, soaring, laughing. That was the most ridiculous (amazing) thing I’ve ever done. You need it, John. You love it. You love...

My fingers falter, and I wince at the sour note, breaking the harsh grin tugging at the corners of my mouth. Did he love? I don’t know. I only know that I loved.

I sigh. Begin a new piece, something I’ve been composing. I let my fingers wander over the strings, improvising absently around the melody line. It’s still too sad. I want something bright to lift my spirits now that the days are growing shorter, but it seems my mind hasn’t been cooperating lately. Well. Everything ends.

A few bees wander out of the hive and I watch them flit over the remnants of the late-summer garden, golden helianthus and pale pink phlox. I abandon my composition and allow the music to drift into something a little more whimsical. Sarasate. My hips pick up the beat, and I allow myself to sway with the music. Why not? A dance with the bees. There’s no one around to see. I never dance in public, of course – too undignified.

Except: the last time I danced in public. Emma’s graduation party. She was radiant, giddy with all the attention, dark blue eyes (his eyes) shining, hands outstretched. Smiling (his smile). Uncle Sherlock, dance with me! Oh, no, dear, I don’t dance. She winks. Laughs (his laugh). You can’t fool me, Uncle Sherlock. I can tell when you’re lying. Yes, she always could. Just this once, then. A waltz. On a turn, I spot John standing by the bar, watching us with a faint smirk, a few more lines around his mouth, a little more grey in his hair, leaning on a cane now necessary rather than mere psychosomatic crutch easily banished with my promise of danger. In that moment, was he – as was I – reminded of another waltz, another time? But was he remembering one waltz, or two? Two partners. Perhaps equally beloved? Wishful thinking, I scoff, ending the piece with a flourish.

A gust of wind billows my dressing gown around my legs and I shiver despite the lukewarm sunshine straining through wisps of cloud. Raise the bow. Play an F, begin the Beethoven romance, and remember.

Another autumn morning. John’s footsteps heavy on the steps up to 221B. Slowing as he nears the landing, listening to me play, delaying the inevitable. Gracious to the last, I play the piece a little more andante, to give us both more time. Beethoven as apology. Beethoven as goodbye. I had deduced his plans weeks ago, of course. It hasn’t been working, balancing his fantasy life with me – cases and madness, a boy’s own adventure – and his real life with Mary and Emma, diapers and date nights. So they’ve decided to make an honest go of it. Bought a small medical practice in Sussex; they’re leaving tomorrow. And suddenly, there he is. Standing in the doorway, hands in his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched, eyes on the swoop of my arm as I bow. I’m playing Beethoven and watching him surreptitiously in the mirror above the fireplace. Don’t look so sad, John. Everything ends.

Desperately wanting to throw down the violin, snatch him up in my arms, press my trembling lips to his forehead and beg him not to go. Instead, school my expression to blankness and keep playing. Meeting his eyes in the mirror. His mouth pressed in a firm line but his eyes crinkling with affection; one side of my mouth quirking up in reply.

I guess you already know; could never hide anything from you. It’s a good place to raise a child. Peaceful, quiet, safe – you’d hate it. We’ll come and visit, of course. New Year’s, perhaps. Emma will want her Uncle Sherlock there for her birthday. I’m barely around anyway these days; you won’t even notice we’re gone. I know, John. It’s okay. Take care of yourself. I’m fine. I’ll be fine.

I close my eyes and pour my aching heart into the music. I tell the bees everything I couldn’t say to John then. Don’t leave me. Stay with me. Choose me. I love you. I love you.

I lower the bow and violin, chest heaving. Take a deep breath, crisp air sharp in my nostrils. Another. Shake my head. I’m just a foolish, sentimental old man, wallowing in the past.

“Hey.”

A voice breaks through my reverie, and I startle slightly. I really must be getting old if he can sneak up on me when I’m just standing here doing nothing, barely even thinking. Fuzzy jumper-covered arms snake around my torso. Wrinkled hands, fingers curled slightly with arthritis, skirt the open edges of my robe and flatten out against my cotton-covered chest, stroking gently.

“Morning.” He stretches up and nuzzles a kiss into the nape of my neck. “Been up for a while?”

My introspective mood dissolves under his soothing hands, and I smile helplessly. I let myself lean back into his steady warmth and raise the hand holding the bow to touch his gnarled one in greeting. After a moment, I turn in his arms, the better to examine the dear wrinkles around his eyes, the one spot under his jaw that he always misses shaving. His head tilts quizzically when he sees my fond smile, which sparks his own smile in return, and soon we’re both grinning at each other.

I dip down and press a laughing kiss to his mouth. “I’m serenading the bees, John!” I announce grandly, heart full of joy. It’s going to be a beautiful day.


End file.
